Aug 19, 2009 7:50am
What the dormouse said?
Thanks for posting, bluedevil. Its good to see Grace looking so good.
Thought I'd post Grace's comments on Jerry and also Hunter's Journal entry, which I came across recently.
'He listened carefully when you spoke. He gave brief humorous answers showing an amazing insight to whatever the subject was.
Open and generous spirit - a wise man in chaos'
'I don't think all the aspects of Jerry were fully realized in his music. He was so "attractive" - gentle intelligence, talent, humor, and a sharp wisdom - that he was ultimately unable to turn in on himself.
These traits were obvious one on one, and, through his ability to express himself in any number of mediums, he was a poor man's da Vinci - among, but apart from the crowd - above, but without disdain'
[not sure I understand the 'unable to turn in on himself' bit]
What's not to like?'
From Hunter's Journal of
August 3, 2005
'Ten years since old Jer kicked the bucket? Seems more like fifty.
Nothing about his passing seems like "only yesterday," rather as long
ago and faraway as my childhood.
From the sublime to the vicious, everything that could be said has
been said and said again. Yet, the essential mystery of who Jerry
Garcia was remains. What can be said with fair assurance is that he was
a source, an original way of seeing the world that agreed with others
in a few broad and important outlines, but which in just as many other
dimensions confounded all expectations.
I wouldn't say he delighted, in any Whitmanian sense, in what
appear to be his contradictions, nor that he had control of them;
predictability was not his strong suit. Not even self predictability.
He could be alarmingly kind in situations where kindness was the last
response to be expected - and altogether gruff where sympathy seemed
the more natural response. You could almost say he had weather rather
Few would disagree that a key part of him remained isolated,
unknown and unknowable. His art is the closest thing to an available
roadmap of his singularities, amorphous clues, and clues only, to the
nature of his true affections. Where he entered, he dominated,
generally to his dismay. He knew he was not a leader, more a scout
striking out in the wilderness of his intuitions, unwittingly summoning
others to tag along through virtue of his magnetic personality and
apparently deep sense of inner direction, but basically antipathetic to
following or to being followed. Driving back and forth across the bay
from Larkspur to San Franscisco on Workingman's Dead recording
sessions, our conversations would range wide, or, sometimes, nothing
would be said at all. I remember once we got to talking about
directions. He professed to having none and inquired as to mine. "For
the time being," I said, "I'm just following you following yourself."
"Then we're both lost," he muttered.
A persistent image I have of Jerry which seems strangely resonant
with his coming and going: a brilliant sunny day on a boat bobbing
above the abyss of Molokini where the floor of the ocean suddenly drops
off a cliff and plunges to unknown depths, I watch him check his gear
then sit on the edge of the boat and tumble over backwards into the
water, which is clear to a depth of several hundred feet. I watch him
dwindle in size as he descends further and further, spread eagle and
motionless, until he is only a speck to the eye, then disappears
altogether from view and there is no more Jerry, only ocean.'